Indian Summer

by William Dean Howells

  XVI

  When Colville came in the morning, Mrs. Bowen received him. They shookhands, and their eyes met in the intercepting glance of the nightbefore.

  "Imogene will be here in a moment," she said, with a naturalness thatmade him awkward and conscious.

  "Oh, there is no haste," he answered uncouthly. "That is, I am very gladof the chance to speak a moment with you, and to ask your--to profit bywhat you think best. I know you are not very well pleased with me, and Idon't know that I can ever put myself in a better light with you--thetrue light. It seems that there are some things we must not do even forthe truth's sake. But that's neither here nor there. What I am mostanxious for is not to take a shadow of advantage of this child's--ofImogene's inexperience, and her remoteness from her family. I feel thatI must in some sort protect her from herself. Yes--that is my idea. ButI have to do this in so many ways that I hardly know how to begin. Ishould be very willing, if you thought best, to go away and stay awaytill she has heard from her people, and let her have that time to thinkit all over again. She is very young--so much younger than I! Or, if youthought it better, I would stay, and let her remain free while I heldmyself bound to any decision of hers. I am anxious to do what is right.At the same time"--he smiled ruefully--"there is such a thing as beingso _dis_interested that one may seem _un_interested. I may leave her sovery free that she may begin to suspect that I want a little freedommyself. What shall I do? I wish to act with your approval."

  Mrs. Bowen had listened with acquiescence and intelligence that mightwell have looked like sympathy, as she sat fingering the top of herhand-screen, with her eyelids fallen. She lifted them to say, "I havetold you that I will not advise you in any way. I cannot. I have nolonger any wish in this matter. I must still remain in the place ofImogene's mother; but I will do only what you wish. Please understandthat, and don't ask me for advice any more. It is painful." She drew herlower lip in a little, and let the screen fall into her lap.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bowen, to do anything--say anything--that is painful toyou," Colville began. "You know that I would give the world to pleaseyou----" The words escaped him and left him staring at her.

  "What are you saying to me, Theodore Colville?" she exclaimed, flashinga full-eyed glance upon him, and then breaking into a laugh, asunnatural for her. "Really, I don't believe you know!"

  "Heaven knows I meant nothing but what I said," he answered, strugglingstupidly with a confusion of desires which every man but no woman willunderstand. After eighteen hundred years, the man is still imperfectlymonogamous. "Is there anything wrong in it?"

  "Oh no! Not for you," she said scornfully.

  "I am very much in earnest," he went on hopelessly, "in asking youropinion, your help, in regard to how I shall treat this affair."

  "And I am still more in earnest in telling you that I will give you noopinion, no help. I forbid you to recur to the subject." He was silent,unable to drop his eyes from hers. "But for her," continued Mrs. Bowen,"I will do anything in my power. If she asks my advice I will give it,and I will give her all the help I can."

  "Thank you," said Colville vaguely.

  "I will not have your thanks," promptly retorted Mrs. Bowen, "for I meanyou no kindness. I am trying to do my duty to Imogene, and when that isended, all is ended. There is no way now for you to please me--as youcall it--except to keep her from regretting what she has done."

  "Do you think I shall fail in that?" he demanded indignantly.

  "I can offer you no opinion. I can't tell what you will do."

  "There are two ways of keeping her from regretting what she has done;and perhaps the simplest and best way would be to free her from theconsequences, as far as they're involved in me," said Colville.

  Mrs. Bowen dropped herself back in her armchair. "If you choose to forcethese things upon me, I am a woman, and can't help myself. Especially, Ican't help myself against a guest."

  "Oh, I will relieve you of my presence," said Colville. "I've no wish toforce anything upon you--least of all myself." He rose, and moved towardthe door.

  She hastily intercepted him. "Do you think I will let you go withoutseeing Imogene? Do you understand me so little as that? It's _too late_for you to go! You know what I think of all this, and I know, betterthan you, what you think. I shall play my part, and you shall playyours. I have refused to give you advice or help, and I never shall doit. But I know what my duty to her is, and I will fulfil it. No matterhow distasteful it is to either of us, you must come here as before. Thehouse is as free to you as ever--freer. And we are to be as good friendsas ever--better. You can see Imogene alone or in my presence, and, asfar as I am concerned, you shall consider yourself engaged or not, asyou choose. Do you understand?"

  "Not in the least," said Colville, in the ghost of his old banteringmanner. "But don't explain, or I shall make still less of it."

  "I mean simply that I do it for Imogene and not for you."

  "Oh, I understand that you don't do it for me."

  At this moment Imogene appeared between the folds of the _portiere_, andher timid, embarrassed glance from Mrs. Bowen to Colville was the firstgleam of consolation that had visited him since he parted with her thenight before. A thrill of inexplicable pride and fondness passed throughhis heart, and even the compunction that followed could not spoil itssweetness. But if Mrs. Bowen discreetly turned her head aside that sheneed not witness a tender greeting between them, the precaution wasunnecessary. He merely went forward and took the girl's hand, with asigh of relief. "Good morning, Imogene," he said, with a kind ofcompassionate admiration.

  "Good morning," she returned half-inquiringly.

  She did not take a seat near him, and turned, as if for instruction, toMrs. Bowen. It was probably the force of habit. In any case, Mrs.Bowen's eyes gave no response. She bowed slightly to Colville, andbegan, "I must leave Imogene to entertain you for the present, Mr.--"

  "No!" cried the girl impetuously; "don't go." Mrs. Bowen stopped. "Iwish to speak with you--with you and Mr. Colville together. I wish tosay--I don't know how to say it exactly; but I wish to know--You askedhim last night, Mrs. Bowen, whether he wished to consider it anengagement?"

  "I thought perhaps you would rather hear from your mother--"

  "Yes, I would be glad to know that my mother approved; but if shedidn't, I couldn't help it. Mr. Colville said he was bound, but I wasnot. That can't be. I _wish_ to be bound, if he is."

  "I don't quite know what you expect me to say."

  "Nothing," said Imogene. "I merely wished you to know. And I don't wishyou to sacrifice anything to us. If you think best, Mr. Colville willnot see me till I hear from home; though it won't make any differencewith me _what_ I hear."

  "There's no reason why you shouldn't meet," said Mrs. Bowen absently.

  "If you wish it to have the same appearance as an Italianengagement----"

  "No," said Mrs. Bowen, putting her hand to her head with a gesture shehad; "that would be quite unnecessary. It would be ridiculous under thecircumstances. I have thought of it, and I have decided that theAmerican way is the best."

  "Very well, then," said Imogene, with the air of summing up; "then theonly question is whether we shall make it known or not to other people."

  This point seemed to give Mrs. Bowen greater pause than any. She was along time silent, and Colville saw that Imogene was beginning to chafeat her indecision. Yet he did not see the moment to intervene in adebate in which he found himself somewhat ludicrously ignored, as if theaffair were solely the concern of these two women, and none of his.

  "Of course, Mrs. Bowen," said the girl haughtily, "if it will bedisagreeable to you to have it known----"

  Mrs. Bowen blushed delicately--a blush of protest and of generoussurprise, or so it seemed to Colville. "I was not thinking of myself,Imogene. I only wish to consider you. And I was thinking whether, atthis distance from home, you wouldn't prefer to have your family'sapproval before you made it known."

  "I am sure of their approval. Father
will do what mother says, and shehas always said that she would never interfere with me in--in--such athing."

  "Perhaps you would like all the more, then, to show her the deference ofwaiting for her consent."

  Imogene started as if stopped short in swift career; it was not hard forColville to perceive that she saw for the first time the reverse side ofa magnanimous impulse. She suddenly turned to him.

  "I think Mrs. Bowen is right," he said gravely, in answer to the eyes ofImogene. He continued, with a flicker of his wonted mood: "You mustconsider me a little in the matter. I have some small shreds ofself-respect about me somewhere, and I would rather not be put in theattitude of defying your family, or ignoring them."

  "No," said Imogene, in the same effect of arrest.

  "When it isn't absolutely necessary," continued Colville. "Especially asyou say there will be no opposition."

  "Of course," Imogene assented; and in fact what he said was very just,and he knew it; but he could perceive that he had suffered loss withher. A furtive glance at Mrs. Bowen did not assure him that he had madea compensating gain in that direction, where, indeed, he had no right towish for any.

  "Well, then," the girl went on, "it shall be so. We will wait. It willonly be waiting. I ought to have thought of you before; I make a badbeginning," she said tremulously. "I supposed I was thinking of you; butI see that I was only thinking of myself." The tears stood in her eyes.Mrs. Bowen, quite overlooked in this apology, slipped from the room.

  "Imogene!" said Colville, coming toward her.

  She dropped herself upon his shoulder. "Oh, why, why, why am I somiserable?"

  "Miserable, Imogene!" he murmured, stroking her beautiful hair.

  "Yes, yes! Utterly miserable! It must be because I'm unworthy ofyou--unequal every way. If you think so, cast me off at once. Don't beweakly merciful!"

  The words pierced his heart. "I would give the world to make you happy,my child!" he said, with perfidious truth, and a sigh that came from thebottom of his soul. "Sit down here by me," he said, moving to the sofa;and with whatever obscure sense of duty to her innocent self-abandon, hemade a space between them, and reduced her embrace to a clasp of thehand she left with him. "Now tell me," he said, "what is it makes youunhappy?"

  "Oh, I don't know," she answered, drying her averted eyes. "I suppose Iam overwrought from not sleeping, and from thinking how we shouldarrange it all."

  "And now that it's all arranged, can't you be cheerful again?"

  "Yes."

  "You're satisfied with the way we've arranged it? Because if--"

  "Oh, perfectly--perfectly!" She hastily interrupted. "I wouldn't have itotherwise. Of course," she added, "it wasn't very pleasant having someone else suggest what I ought to have thought of myself, and seem moredelicate about you than I was."

  "Some one else?"

  "You know! Mrs. Bowen."

  "Oh! But I couldn't see that she was anxious to spare me. It occurred tome that she was concerned about your family."

  "It led up to the other! it's all the same thing."

  "Well, even in that case, I don't see why you should mind it. It wascertainly very friendly of her, and I know that she has your interest atheart entirely."

  "Yes; she knows how to make it seem so."

  Colville hesitated in bewilderment. "Imogene!" he cried at last, "Idon't understand this. Don't you think Mrs. Bowen likes you?"

  "She detests me."

  "Oh, no, no, no! That's too cruel an error. You mustn't think that. Ican't let you. It's morbid. I'm sure that she's devotedly kind and goodto you."

  "Being kind and good isn't liking. I know what she thinks. But of courseI can't expect to convince you of it; no one else could see it."

  "No!" said Colville, with generous fervour. "Because it doesn't existand you mustn't imagine it. You are as sincerely and unselfishlyregarded in this house as you could be in your own home. I'm sure ofthat. I know Mrs. Bowen. She has her little worldlinesses andunrealities of manner, but she is truth and loyalty itself. She wouldrather die than be false, or even unfair. I knew her long ago--"

  "Yes," cried the girl, "long before you knew me!"

  "And I know her to be the soul of honour," said Colville, ignoring thechildish outburst. "Honour--like a man's," he added. "And, Imogene, Iwant you to promise me that you'll not think of her any more in thatway. I want you to think of her as faithful and loving to you, for sheis so. Will you do it?"

  Imogene did not answer him at once. Then she turned upon him a face ofradiant self-abnegation. "I will do anything you tell me. Only tell methings to do."

  The next time he came he again saw Mrs. Bowen alone before Imogeneappeared. The conversation was confined to two sentences.

  "Mr. Colville," she said, with perfectly tranquil point, while shetilted a shut book to and fro on her knee, "I will thank you not todefend me."

  Had she overheard? Had Imogene told her? He answered, in a fury ofresentment for her ingratitude that stupefied him. "I will never speakof you again."

  Now they were enemies; he did not know how or why, but he said tohimself, in the bitterness of his heart, that it was better so; and whenImogene appeared, and Mrs. Bowen vanished, as she did without anotherword to him, he folded the girl in a vindictive embrace.

  "What is the matter?" she asked, pushing away from him.

  "With me?"

  "Yes; you seem so excited."

  "Oh, nothing," he said, shrinking from the sharpness of that scrutiny ina woman's eyes, which, when it begins the perusal of a man's soul,astonishes and intimidates him; he never perhaps becomes able to endureit with perfect self-control. "I suppose a slight degree of excitementin meeting you may be forgiven me." He smiled under the unrelaxedseverity of her gaze.

  "Was Mrs. Bowen saying anything about me?"

  "Not a word," said Colville, glad of getting back to the firm truthagain, even if it were mere literality.

  "We have made it up," she said, her scrutiny changing to a lovely appealfor his approval. "What there was to make up."

  "Yes?"

  "I told her what you had said. And now it's all right between us, andyou mustn't be troubled at that any more. I did it to please you."

  She seemed to ask him with the last words whether she really had pleasedhim, as if something in his aspect suggested a doubt; and he hastened toreassure her. "That was very good of you. I appreciate it highly. It'sextremely gratifying."

  She broke into a laugh of fond derision. "I don't believe you reallycared about it, or else you're not thinking about it now. Sit down here;I want to tell you of something I've thought out." She pulled him to thesofa, and put his arm about her waist, with a simple fearlessness andmatter-of-course promptness that made him shudder. He felt that he oughtto tell her not to do it, but he did not quite know how without woundingher. She took hold of his hand and drew his lax arm taut. Then shelooked up into his eyes, as if some sense of his misgiving had conveyeditself to her, but she did not release her hold of his hand.

  "Perhaps we oughtn't, if we're not engaged?" she suggested, with suchutter trust in him as made his heart quake.

  "Oh," he sighed, from a complexity of feeling that no explanation couldwholly declare, "we're engaged enough for that, I suppose."

  "I'm glad you think so," she answered innocently. "I knew you wouldn'tlet me if it were not right." Having settled the question, "Of course,"she continued, "we shall all do our best to keep our secret; but inspite of everything it may get out. Do you see?"

  "Well?"

  "Well, of course it will make a great deal of remark."

  "Oh yes; you must be prepared for that, Imogene," said Colville, with asmuch gravity as he could make comport with his actual position.

  "I am prepared for it, and prepared to despise it," answered the girl."I shall have no trouble except the fear that you will mind it." Shepressed his hand as if she expected him to say something to this.

  "I shall never care for it," he said, and this was true enough. "My onlycare
will be to keep you from regretting. I have tried from the first tomake you see that I was very much older than you. It would be miserableenough if you came to see it too late."

  "I have never seen it, and I never shall see it, because there's no suchdifference between us. It isn't the years that make us young or old--whois it says that? No matter, it's true. And I want you to believe it. Iwant you to feel that I am your youth--the youth you were robbedof--given back to you. Will you do it? Oh, if you could, I should be thehappiest girl in the world." Tears of fervour dimmed the beautiful eyeswhich looked into his. "Don't speak!" she hurried on. "I won't let youtill I have said it all. It's been this idea, this hope, with mealways--ever since I knew what happened to you here long ago--that youmight go back in my life and take up yours where it was broken off; thatI might make your life what it would have been--complete your destiny--"

  Colville wrenched himself loose from the hold that had been growing moretenderly close and clinging. "And do you think I could be such a vampireas to let you? Yes, yes; I have had my dreams of such a thing; but I seenow how hideous they were. You shall make no such sacrifice to me. Youmust put away the fancies that could never be fulfilled, or if by someinfernal magic they could, would only bring sorrow to you and shame tome. God forbid! And God forgive me, if I have done or said anything toput this in your head! And thank God it isn't too late yet for you totake yourself back."

  "Oh," she murmured. "Do you think it is self-sacrifice for me to givemyself to you? It's self-glorification! You don't understand--I haven'ttold you what I mean, or else I've told it in such a way that I've madeit hateful to you. Do you think I don't care for you except to besomething to you? I'm not so generous as that. You are all the world tome. If I take myself back from you, as you say, what shall I do withmyself?"

  "Has it come to that?" asked Colville. He sat down again with her, andthis time he put his arm around her and drew her to him, but it seemedto him he did it as if she were his child. "I was going to tell you justnow that each of us lived to himself in this world, and that no onecould hope to enter into the life of another and complete it. But now Isee that I was partly wrong. We two are bound together, Imogene, andwhether we become all in all or nothing to each other, we can have noseparate fate."

  The girl's eyes kindled with rapture. "Then let us never speak of itagain. I was going to say something, but now I won't say it."

  "Yes, say it."

  "No; it will make you think that I am anxious on my own account aboutappearances before people."

  "You poor child, I shall never think you are anxious on your own accountabout anything. What were you going to say?"

  "Oh, nothing! It was only--are you invited to the Phillipses' fancyball?"

  "Yes," said Colville, silently making what he could of the diversion, "Ibelieve so."

  "And are you going--did you mean to go?" she asked timidly.

  "Good heavens, no! What in the world should I do at another fancy ball?I walked about with the airy grace of a bull in a china shop at the lastone."

  Imogene did not smile. She faintly sighed. "Well, then, I won't goeither."

  "Did you intend to go?"

  "Oh no!"

  "Why, of course you did, and it's very right you should. Did you want meto go?"

  "It would bore you."

  "Not if you're there." She gave his hand a grateful pressure. "Come,I'll go, of course, Imogene. A fancy ball to please you is a verydifferent thing from a fancy ball in the abstract."

  "Oh, what nice things you say! Do you know, I always admired yourcompliments? I think they're the most charming compliments in theworld."

  "I don't think they're half so pretty as yours; but they're moresincere."

  "No, honestly. They flatter, and at the same time they make fun of theflattery a little; they make a person feel that you like them, evenwhile you laugh at them."

  "They appear to be rather an intricate kind of compliment--sort of_salsa agradolce_ affair--tutti frutti style--species of moralmayonnaise."

  "No--be quiet! You know what I mean. What were we talking about? Oh! Iwas going to say that the most fascinating thing about you always wasthat ironical way of yours."

  "Have I an ironical way? You were going to tell me something more aboutthe fancy ball."

  "I don't care for it. I would rather talk about you."

  "And I prefer the ball. It's a fresher topic--to me."

  "Very well, then. But this I will say. No matter how happy you shouldbe, I should always want you to keep that tone of persiflage. You've noidea how perfectly intoxicating it is."

  "Oh yes, I have. It seems to have turned the loveliest and wisest headin the world."

  "Oh, do you really think so? I would give anything if you did."

  "What?"

  "Think I was pretty," she pleaded, with full eyes. "Do you?"

  "No, but I think you are wise. Fifty per cent, of truth--it's a largeaverage in compliments. What are you going to wear?"

  "Wear? Oh! At the ball! Something Egyptian, I suppose. It's to be anEgyptian ball. Didn't you understand that?"

  "Oh yes. But I supposed you could go in any sort of dress."

  "You can't. You must go in some Egyptian character."

  "How would Moses do? In the bulrushes, you know. You could be Pharaoh'sdaughter, and recognise me by my three hats. And toward the end of theevening, when I became very much bored, I could go round killingEgyptians."

  "No, no. Be serious. Though I like you to joke, too. I shall always wantyou to joke. Shall you, always?"

  "There may be emergencies when I shall fail--like family prayers, andgrace before meat, and dangerous sickness."

  "Why, of course. But I mean when we're together, and there's no reasonwhy you shouldn't?"

  "Oh, at such times I shall certainly joke."

  "And before people, too! I won't have them saying that it's soberedyou--that you used to be very gay, and now you're cross, and never sayanything."

  "I will try to keep it up sufficiently to meet the public demand."

  "And I shall want you to joke me, too. You must satirise me. It doesmore to show me my faults than anything else, and it will show otherpeople how perfectly submissive I am, and how I think everything you dois just right."

  "If I were to beat you a little in company, don't you think it wouldserve the same purpose?"

  "No, no; be serious."

  "About joking?"

  "No, about me. I know that I'm very intense, and you must try to correctthat tendency in me."

  "I will, with pleasure. Which of my tendencies are you going tocorrect?"

  "You have none."

  "Well, then, neither have you. I'm not going to be outdone incivilities."

  "Oh, if people could only hear you talk in this light way, and then knowwhat _I_ know!"

  Colville broke out into a laugh at the deep sigh which accompanied thesewords. As a whole, the thing was grotesque and terrible to him, butafter a habit of his, he was finding a strange pleasure in its details.

  "No, no," she pleaded. "Don't laugh. There are girls that would givetheir eyes for it."

  "As pretty eyes as yours?"

  "Do you think they're nice?"

  "Yes, if they were not so mysterious."

  "Mysterious?"

  "Yes, I feel that your eyes can't really be as honest as they look. Thatwas what puzzled me about them the first night I saw you."

  "No--did it, really?"

  "I went home saying to myself that no girl could be so sincere as thatMiss Graham seemed."

  "Did you say that?"

  "Words to that effect."

  "And what do you think now?"

  "Ah, I don't know. You had better go as the Sphinx."

  Imogene laughed in simple gaiety of heart.

  "How far we've got from the ball!" she said, as if the remote excursionwere a triumph. "What shall we really go as?"

  "Isis and Osiris."

  "Weren't they gods of some kind?"

  "Little
one-horse deities--not very much."

  "It won't do to go as gods of any kind. They're always failures. Peopleexpect too much of them."

  "Yes," said Colville. "That's human nature under all circumstances. Butwhy go to an Egyptian ball at all?"

  "Oh, we must go. If we both stayed away it would make talk at once, andmy object is to keep people in the dark till the very last moment. Ofcourse it's unfortunate your having told Mrs. Amsden that you were goingaway, and then telling her just after you came back with me that youwere going to stay. But it can't be helped now. And I don't really carefor it. But don't you see why I want you to go to all these things?"

  "All these things?"

  "Yes, everything you're invited to after this. It's not merely for ablind as regards ourselves now, but if they see that you're very fond ofall sorts of gaieties, they will see that you are--they willunderstand----"

  There was no need for her to complete the sentence. Colville rose."Come, come, my dear child," he said, "why don't you end all this atonce? I don't blame you. Heaven knows I blame no one but myself! I oughtto have the strength to break away from this mistake, but I haven't. Icouldn't bear to see you suffer from pain that I should give you evenfor your good. But do it yourself, Imogene, and for pity's sake don'tforbear from any notion of sparing me. I have no wish except for yourhappiness, and now I tell you clearly that no appearance we can put onbefore the world will deceive the world. At the end of all our trouble Ishall still be forty----"

  She sprang to him and put her hand over his mouth. "I know what you'regoing to say, and I won't let you say it, for you've promised over andover again not to speak of that any more. Oh, do you think I care forthe world, or what it will think or say?"

  "Yes, very much."

  "That shows how little you understand me. It's because I wish to _defy_the world--"

  "Imogene! Be as honest with yourself as you are with me."

  "I _am_ honest."

  "Look me in the eyes, then."

  She did so for an instant, and then hid her face on his shoulder.

  "You silly girl," he said. "What is it you really do wish?"

  "I wish there was no one in the world but you and me."

  "Ah, you'd find it very crowded at times," said Colville sadly. "Well,well," he added, "I'll go to your fandangoes, because you want me togo."

  "That's all I wished you to say," she replied, lifting her head, andlooking him radiantly in the face. "I don't want you to go at all! Ionly want you to promise that you'll come here every night that you'reinvited out, and read to Mrs. Bowen and me."

  "Oh, I can't do that," said Colville; "I'm too fond of society. Forexample, I've been invited to an Egyptian fancy ball, and I couldn'tthink of giving that up."

  "Oh, how delightful you are! They couldn't any of them talk like you."

  He had learned to follow the processes of her thought now. "Perhaps theycan when they come to my age."

  "There!" she exclaimed, putting her hand on his mouth again, to remindhim of another broken promise. "Why can't you give up the Egyptianball?"

  "Because I expect to meet a young lady there--a very beautiful younglady."

  "But how shall you know her if she's disguised?"

  "Why, I shall be disguised too, you know."

  "Oh, what delicious nonsense you _do_ talk! Sit down here and tell mewhat you are going to wear."

  She tried to pull him back to the sofa. "What character shall you goin?"

  "No, no," he said, resisting the gentle traction. "I can't; I haveurgent business down-town."

  "Oh! Business in _Florence!"_

  "Well, if I stayed, I should tell you what disguise I'm going to theball in."

  "I knew it was that. What do you think would be a good character forme?"

  "I don't know. The serpent of old Nile would be pretty good for you."

  "Oh, I know you don't think it!" she cried fondly. She had now let himtake her hand, and he stood holding it at arm's-length. Effie Bowen cameinto the room. "Good-bye," said Imogene, with an instant assumption ofsociety manner.

  "Good-bye," said Colville, and went out.

  "Oh, Mr. Colville!" she called, before he got to the outer door.

  "Yes," he said, starting back.

  She met him midway of the dim corridor. "Only to--" She put her armsabout his neck and sweetly kissed him.

  Colville went out into the sunlight feeling like some strange, newlyinvented kind of scoundrel--a rascal of such recent origin andintroduction that he had not yet had time to classify himself andascertain the exact degree of his turpitude. The task employed histhoughts all that day, and kept him vibrating between an instinctiveconviction of monstrous wickedness and a logical and well-reasonedperception that he had all the facts and materials for a perfectly goodconscience. He was the betrothed lover of this poor child, whoseaffection he could not check without a degree of brutality for whichonly a better man would have the courage. When he thought of perhapsrefusing her caresses, he imagined the shock it would give her, and thelook of grief and mystification that would come into her eyes, and hefound himself incapable of that cruel rectitude. He knew that these werethe impulses of a white and loving soul; but at the end of all hisargument they remained a terror to him, so that he lacked nothing butthe will to fly from Florence and shun her altogether till she had heardfrom her family. This, he recalled, with bitter self-reproach was whathad been his first inspiration; he had spoken of it to Mrs. Bowen, andit had still everything in its favour except that it was impossible.

  Imogene returned to the salotto, where the little girl was standing withher face to the window, drearily looking out; her back expressed aninner desolation which revealed itself in her eyes when Imogene caughther head between her hands, and tilted up her face to kiss it.

  "What is the matter, Effie?" she demanded gaily.

  "Nothing."

  "Oh yes, there is."

  "Nothing that you will care for. As long as he's pleasant to you, youdon't care what he does to me."

  "What has he done to you?"

  "He didn't take the slightest notice of me when I came into the room. Hedidn't speak to me, or even look at me."

  Imogene caught the little grieving, quivering face to her breast "He isa wicked, wicked wretch! And I will give him the awfulest scolding heever had when he comes here again. I will teach him to neglect my pet. Iwill let him understand that if he doesn't notice you, he needn't noticeme. I will tell you, Effie--I've just thought of a way. The next time hecomes we will both receive him. We will sit up very stiffly on the sofatogether, and just answer Yes, No, Yes, No, to everything he says, tillhe begins to take the hint, and learns how to behave himself. Will you?"

  A smile glittered through the little girl's tears; but she asked, "Doyou think it would be very polite?"

  "No matter, polite or not, it's what he deserves. Of course, as soon ashe begins to take the hint, we will be just as we always are."

  Imogene despatched a note, which Colville got the next morning, to tellhim of his crime, and apprise him of his punishment, and of the sweetcompunction that had pleaded for him in the breast of the child. If hedid not think he could help play the comedy through, he must comeprepared to offer Effie some sort of atonement.

  It was easy to do this: to come with his pockets full of presents, andtake the little girl on his lap, and pour out all his troubled heart inthe caresses and tendernesses which would bring him no remorse. Hehumbled himself to her thoroughly, and with a strange sincerity in theharmless duplicity, and promised, if she would take him back intofavour, that he would never offend again. Mrs. Bowen had sent word thatshe was not well enough to see him; she had another of her headaches;and he sent back a sympathetic and respectful message by Effie, whostood thoughtfully at her mother's pillow after she had delivered it,fingering the bouquet Colville had brought her, and putting her headfirst on this side, and then on that to admire it.

  "I think Mr. Colville and Imogene are much more affectionate than theyused to be,
" she said.

  Mrs. Bowen started up on her elbow. "What do you mean, Effie?"

  "Oh, they're both so good to me."

  "Yes," said her mother, dropping back to her pillow. "Both?"

  "Yes; he's the _most_ affectionate."

  The mother turned her face the other way. "Then he must be," shemurmured.

  "What?" asked the child.

  "Nothing. I didn't know I spoke."

  The little girl stood a while still playing with her flowers. "I thinkMr. Colville is about the pleasantest gentleman that comes here. Don'tyou, mamma?"

  "Yes."

  "He's so interesting, and says such nice things. I don't know whetherchildren ought to think of such things, but I wish I was going to marrysome one like Mr. Colville. Of course I should want to be tolerably oldif I did. How old do you think a person ought to be to marry him?"

  "You mustn't talk of such things, Effie," said her mother.

  "No; I suppose it isn't very nice." She picked out a bud in her bouquet,and kissed it; then she held the nosegay at arm's-length before her, anddanced away with it.